


Tomorrow, maybe.

by Mayjune



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 20:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayjune/pseuds/Mayjune
Summary: Another possible/alternative future for Sam.  I love his character to bits (and by bits – I actually mean with all my heart), so I don’t know why I made this so sad.  Themes of death, depression, addiction and suicide all line up in this brief short, with no happy ending.





	

Sam woke slowly, nausea rousing him from sleep.  Slumped across the table he had fallen asleep at, Sam released the empty glass bottle clutched in a sweaty fist, and pulled himself upright with some hesitation, knowing that any movement would make the urge to vomit worse.  And bring on the thumping headache that only more liquor could damp down.

Finally sitting up, with fingers pressed tightly against his forehead, he waited until the worst of the spinning had passed before opening his eyes.  He was long past seeing what a shocking mess the bunker was in.  Or what a shocking mess _he_ was in.  His entire existence revolved around drinking whatever mind-numbing alcohol he could find until he passed out, then repeating the same thing again as soon as he awoke.

It kind of bothered him once, the extent of his self-destruction. Just how sharply-angled the slope of his decline was. Intelligence and insanity blended as he decided to look at his descent as a kind of twisted science experiment; the gulf between the man he once was, and the wreck he was fast becoming.  It held a morbid curiosity. But that was only whilst he was on the slide down.  Once he actually hit rock bottom he didn’t give a shit. 

The greasy texture of his hair, the musty smell coming off his clothes; he didn’t notice any of it.  His appearance was irrelevant, it didn’t even register as an issue.  He didn’t know how long his beard was, or how sallow his skin tone had become – there were no un-smashed mirrors left in the bunker.  He literally hadn’t looked at his own reflection since…well, who knows?  _Who cares?_  

At some point over the last few days he had fallen over, cutting open his cheek and chin.  He had no memory of the fall, and the pain and blood made no more impact on him than some minor celebrity news event on the other side of the world would have.  It wasn’t the first time; wouldn’t be the last.  He just considered it a damn shame he hadn’t hit his head hard enough to knock himself out and never wake up.

Dean’s death – and the part that Sam played in it – had broken his heart.  Cas’s hideous murder had then broken his spirit.  And the severe injury to his own left leg broke his body.  With a trifecta that toxic, any chance of ever being able to pull himself up by his bootstraps and carry on with life dissolved.  Where once he would have thrown himself into work or his fitness, where once he would have pulled on his sweats and run and run until he collapsed into a heaving mess on the floor, his injury had prevented that.  Despair and depression followed swiftly.

Like a mouldy, fuzzy blanket, the grey mantle he wrapped himself up in didn’t have many sharp edges. But the ones which even whiskey couldn’t blunt cut through his emotions like razor blades. Half the time he didn’t know why he found himself crying; tears would run down his cheeks long after whatever surfaced memory had stabbed its way through before fading. 

He often wondered why he chose alcohol to commit suicide with.  It was slow and miserable, and  Lord knows he had self-medicated with enough other substances in the past that could have done the job much more quickly and pleasantly.  It wasn’t about getting high though.  It was a final link to Dean, he supposed. Every time he cracked open a fresh seal, he raised the bottle in salute to his brother.  Demon blood, which was undoubtedly a much more potent substance to abuse, was out of the question.  He struggled to even get to a liquor store, let alone find the strength to take down demons the way he used to. He could walk on his leg, just about.  Could drive if he had to, but the thought of mowing someone down whilst under the influence down stopped him cold.  The walk down to the nearest town wasn’t all that far, but hobbling (and weaving) as he did, took him away from the bunker for over an hour.  And that was far too long to be out in the real world.

And besides, he didn’t want the strength and power that demon blood would give him. The thought made him sick.  He didn’t want to _grow_ ; he wanted to _reduce_.  To become smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of him except for a little speck of dust on the floor that was once Sam Winchester.

Occasionally, whilst out and about on one of his booze excursions, with dozens of clinking and clunking bottles crammed into his holdall, he would check the date on a newspaper.  It was reassurance that time was actually moving forwards; in the bunker weeks, days, hours and minutes all felt the same to him. 

The length of time that had passed always surprised him.  _How was he still alive?_   Surely the sheer volume of alcohol and the harsh physical neglect he subjected himself to had to be taking their toll more rapidly than this?  He got no exercise, he barely ate at all and when he did it was just junk.  All he did was drink and sleep, drink and sleep.  He had never envisaged his death would be so slow.  And this was painfully so; his brain addling and his liver shrivelling was taking far too long.

It must be just a tiny, bitter, stubborn morsel of his former self that kept him alive.  Self-hatred maybe?  Some masochistic streak that forced his life, such as it was, to continue?  Every day at the height of his drunkenness, at the uttermost peak of his ‘bravery’, he would pull out a loaded handgun and stare at it.  He didn’t linger with it in his hand though, or fetishize it in any way – the gun was simply a door marked ‘Exit’.  After a minute or so, the gun would get put back in the drawer next to his bed and he would pick up the nearest bottle of whatever instead. _Tomorrow, maybe_.

Scraping the wooden chair back behind him, the noise hurting his teeth, Sam used the table for support as he stood up, swaying.  Sam had always been trim but now he was thin; his dirty jeans threatened to slip down as he stood. Mindlessly he clutched them back up to waist height.

Anyone from his past; friend or foe, angel or demon, would have been shocked at the sight of him. Sure, some of the more unsavoury monsters – and even hunters - would have laughed that the once and future boy-king had been brought so low, but his shuffling gait and filthy appearance might have made their skin (if they had any) crawl.

A while back, quite a while back actually, Sam had taken to smashing out some of the lights in the bunker.  He used the sword that Dean had liked to mess around with sometimes, when he thought Sam wasn’t looking.  Their bright glow had drilled into his fragile skull one too many times and pissed him off, so out came the sword and, like Don Quixote attacking his enemies, he tilted at lightbulbs.  Now most of the rooms and corridors were gloomy spaces, which Sam definitely preferred. 

Not quite fully awake, and definitely not fully sober, Sam peered around the darkened library, searching for a fresh bottle of relief.  Squinting, he could see nothing but empties, so half-dragging his crappy leg behind him he made for the kitchen in search of something to burn away the heavy acidic taste in his mouth.

The kitchen was in no better state than the library.  As usual, Sam ignored what he didn’t want to see and went straight to what he did want. 

An almost-full bottle of vodka was waiting patiently for him next to the unused coffee machine.  Grabbing it, Sam headed straight for the garage.  He found himself spending a lot of time in the car lately.  The Impala wasn’t going anywhere, what with the engine block half hanging out, and two of the wheels permanently crushed sideways.  But the back door creaked open just like it always had, and Sam curled up on the back seat, just like he always had. 

Snuggling down with a blanket pulled up to his chest, it was the only place that brought him any sort of peace.  He waited until he was fully settled before taking his first drink of the day.

Sam stared at, without really seeing, the back of Dean’s seat.  Dad’s seat.   _No one’s seat_.  His mind was elsewhere – else _when_. A hunting trip when he was maybe fifteen.  Dad and Dean laughing in the front about some long forgotten stupid thing.  Sam coiled up in the back, as he was now, recovering from a blow to the head from a too-fast vamp. 

He dozed, jerking awake occasionally, using the opportunity to take another swig before settling down again. 

He dreamed about Toni Bevell.  Of the warmth between her legs, his fingers sliding and slick.  She put her tongue in his mouth and it tasted like sour milk.

Sometimes he could hear music. Other times it was Bobby’s voice – too faint to hear the actual words, but the tone was there, unmistakably.  He knew they were just auditory hallucinations, but he mostly liked them just the same.

Not today, though.  As his hands roamed over that bitch’s thin silk dress he thought he could hear AC/DC’s Hells Bells and it was making him sick.

_You're only young but you're gonna die_

_I won't take no prisoners won't spare no lives_

_Nobody's putting up a fight_

_I got my bell I'm gonna take you to hell_

_I'm gonna get ya satan get ya_

He stumbled out of the car to get away from the music, _from the taste of_ _her_ , but it followed him inside the bunker.  It was still there as he went to the bathroom, retching.  So he went into his bedroom, turned on the TV loud. Fought the urge to scratch the inside of his brain with the Browning in the side table that his hand was not so casually resting on.  Advertisement followed advertisement, but Sam wasn’t watching; his head was gone again – he was looking down at Jo, all brave and bloody with her stomach ripped wide open from a Hellhounds claw.

The music returned. _I won't take no prisoners won't spare no lives._ The song wouldn’t quit, it just wouldn’t quit.  Sam ran from the room, eyes closed, hands over his ears as he bounced like a pinball along the corridors.  He was screaming as he hurled himself along.  An elbow hit something sharp and he slammed nose-first into a hard tiled wall.  There he crumpled against the bottom step of the staircase, hyperventilating. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly he dragged himself up the metal staircase.  At the very top, near the door, was the holdall bag he kept for his liquor runs. He curled himself around the bag, feeling blindly for the familiar shape of a bottle.  Opened whatever the hell it was, toasted his brother, and drank until his head swam and the music faded. 


End file.
